The following is a log of roleplay on Threadfall MUSH, logged by Zarvind.
All references to the world and characters of Pern based on Anne McCaffrey's fiction are copyrightę 1967 by Anne McCaffrey, all rights reserved. The Dragonriders of Pern« is registered U.S. Patent and Trademark Office, by Anne McCaffrey and used here with permission.
Living Caverns - Ista Weyr
Vibrant environs enclosed by smooth stone walls, these caverns are the very heart of bustling Weyr life. The largest is massive and designed to house almost the entire population of the Weyr at once, with tables and benches arranged in perfectly neat rows that run almost the entire length of the half-circle cave. Tapestries are flung from the ceiling, draping down in bright hues of Istan black and orange as well as colorful scenes of past heroics detailing all the fiery glory of Pernese history. Hearths line the walls, at least one of which constantly burning with a pot of stew and a pitcher of klah set there to keep warm.
Tunnels branch off from these central caverns, leading deeper into various parts of the Weyr. To the east lie the infirmaries, both human and draconic, beyond a small wooden door to minimize the noise that will filter through. West are the kitchens and the storerooms from which emanate delectable smells at nearly all hours of the day or night, drudges bustling to and from with dishes and platters. Stairs lead down into the lower caverns while a man-sized tunnel cuts through the stone and back out to the bowl. Smaller tunnels diverge here and there as well.
Lower Caverns Stairs Kitchens Infirmary Bowl
Zarvind plops his sandals back on the floor with a sickly squelch. "Hrm," he comments, inventively. If he's winner of the field, its an unhappy field. He shrugs, looks around from his unfolded position, fingers tapping speculatively on the table.
A mop of black caps an awkward seeming demeanour, dripping askew over one ear in unpractised roguishness. His face is highly angular, sly curve of cheek almost childish in the peak of youthful delicacy. Grey eyes and clipped chin straggle casually together with the rest of this youth's sturdy but slightly lanky form, long legs claiming a striding gait as an obscure slur marks alto voice.
A spare pair of sandals fits loosely over Zar's feet, chapped flesh evident on the exposed toes. Otherwise, his clothes are ordinary, Weyr issue, brown tunic clapped over mid-length middling umber trous reaching to calf level. Crinkled, his outfit at least appears clean, without frills, and his knot proves it: bright saffron mingles unabashedly with deep jet, single-corded, looped once to denote him a resident at Ista Weyr.
He looks to be about 14 Turns, 2 months, 24 days old.
Crisa is sitting over by herself, seemingly lost in her thoughts.
Even if this young woman is small of stature, she demands attention. Not by words or deeds, but by her simple look. Crisa's hair is a lustrious brown, as dark as the oldest of tree trunks and just as thick. It spirals down around her face framing it much like a picture. Her eyes are deep set green and angular, giving her a slightly exotic cast. A small button nose and full lips fill out the woman's features.
She's wearing a loose open blouse of flax, white in color. It is almost airy with the way it moves and just drapes on her. It is also nearly translucent. It holds her blossoming form well, her body curving with the swell of bosom. It is not tucked into the shortened skirt that she wears, which is a deepset blue. The skirt is of the same material but is of course, not translucent at all. It ends around her knees. The rest of her body is left bare and tan. Even her feet go without shoes for almost the entire Turn. Around her shoulder is the Knot of Ista Weyr.
Ineban comes in through the narrow tunnel from the bowl.
Ineban goes home.
Speculation gives way to action: Zarvind produces a pair of dice from his pocket and begins toying with them while looking over his shoulder. In case someone comes in. He straddles his seat to face Crisa. "Hel/lo/ there."
Crisa blinks a few times.. "Huh?" She looks over and inclines her head.. "Hi.. how are you?"
Jonah comes in through the narrow tunnel from the bowl.
Jonah heads down the stairs, deeper into the Weyr.
Zarvind appraises Crisa through sly grey eyes, leaning forward from stool's position. "Do you dice?" One hand flicks to push back black hair; to prop up his lethargic stance.
Crisa blinks a few times.. "Dice? Um.. no?"
And perhaps Zar too, can realise there was a question asked of him. "I often wonder of the significance of that question, y'know, Crisa. How are you as opposed to how am I or how is this--" Fingers snap back, disappointedly to rub at his nose. "Unfortunate. Maybe you need a teacher. But first, how are you?" He grins across the intervening space, since there're few around this day.
Crisa smiles a little bit more, forcing it. "I... am well. How are you?" She taps her lips gently..
"Fine. Bored but fine," says Zarvind. He drags his stool across to her and adds confidentially, "The candidates are doing all the chores and I'm free for now." Isn't that great? His smirk flicks on; his gaze studies the lips she's tapping.
Crisa nods and smiles gently, before she leans back against her chair. "Well, that's good...I.. really don't have much to do."
"Istan, aren't you?" Zarvind sounds a trifle shocked: Crisa seems honest in this. "Let me propose something," he takes a breath, then says grandly, "what say-- okay I'll be generous. Why don't you take over any chores I have for the next four sevendays then?" The lad tries a wink at the end of that.
Crisa blinks a few times and tilts her head to the side. "Okay.. hm.. no?"
Zarvind lifts his shoulders in a gesture that's /almost/ suggestive of defeat. "Why not?"
Crisa grins a bit at him.. "Because... they are your chores?"
Goldean comes up the flight of stairs from the inner
Goldean has arrived.
Zarvind scowls, morose in an instant. "Shardit, girl. A pretty one like you should be more obliging," urges he to Crisa, once more. Zar is straddling a stool that he's shoved against the ground, where he's persuading Crisa on ... something.
Crisa blinks a few times. "Pretty? What are you talking baout?"
Goldean dances in just looking at the pair as he moves into the caverns.
"You." A finger jabs from Zar, along with a mocking smile. He doesn't pay much attention to the dancing Goldean besides a slight scraping of the seat backwards, just in case.
Crisa blinks a few times.. "Why would you think that I'm pretty?"
Zarvind backpedals a bit brain-wise. "Hasn't anyone ever called you that?" he comments with disbelief, extending one hand in order to catch the point of her arm. Women. "You have lovely eyes, and I know ladies who'd give anything for that kind of hair," the smile revolves on his face, cautiously, "m'lady." Flattery will get him--where?
In the middle of the dancing Goldean manages to hack and cough 'Flirt' under his breath before he assumes his position as the dancer to his own music and his own stage
Goldean stands tall with a set of wide shoulders and broad chest. His head sits on his shoulders balanced on a wide neck. He has a set of cyan eyes, light and clear, which sparkle with the even nearest glint of light. He has golden hair that shine in healthieness. A few streaks of a blondish white streak through bleached from the sun. His hair is straight and parts into the middle of it. Goldean's skin is a deep tan, which has soaked in many years of Ista's warm sun. He is strong and has power in his arms and legs. His weight evens out as his height reaches just a bit above the average height. Goldean is 16 Turns, 8 months, 1 days old.
Crisa tilts her head to the side. "Eyes and.. hair?" She tilts her head to the side. "How do you mean?"
J'sen comes in through the narrow tunnel from the bowl.
J'sen has arrived.
Zarvind assumes something more of height by squaring his shoulders to assume a lanky importance beyond his fifteen or so turns. He's still on that stool, still facing the older but smaller Crisa. "Your hair shines so, and your eyes are an artist's dream," he croons, and its something he's read from a hide, you can be sure. "By my...'lizard's tail, its true." Not that she'd contest it.
Crisa snorts softly and rolls her eyes. "sure.."
Goldean has disconnected.
J'sen wanders in, uniform traded in for casual clothes for the evening. He arches a brow at the rather... interesting conversation he walks in on.
Standing close to six and a half feet tall and well-muscled from turns of riding, J'sen can appear intimidating at first glance. But a glimpse of his little-boy smile and a twinkle of his deep blue eyes usually prove quickly disarming. Ruggedly sculpted but handsome features frame those engaging eyes while sandy blond hair is kept cropped close, in defense of its tendency to curl around his nape if left untrimmed.
Well-worn, golden brown riding leathers seem to be his clothing of choice on a regular basis. The jacket fits his broad shoulders with a bit of room to spare, a thin white tunic showing through, while the trous fit close, but not tightly. A pair of dark brown boots encase his feet.
Zarvind shrugs, jaw agape to reveal half a row of teeth. "Or would you prefer I say the reverse? No, I'm sure you wouldn't like it. Is the /truth/ not what you want?" he leans back, playing with the pair of dice in his hands, watching her warily beneath aslant eyes. "Good evening," he tosses backwards for J'sen, lounging away from where she is. Someone else comes.
Crisa tilts her head to the side and looks over, allowing a smile to J'sen.. is that relief that's just washed over her features?
J'sen pours himself a cup of klah and wanders over. "Even to you two," he smiles. "Anything interesting," he eyes the dice in Zarvind's hand, "going on?'
Belena comes up the flight of stairs from the inner
Belena disappears through the narrow tunnel to the bowl.
"I was thinking of playing with these," Zarvind jiggles his palm, "but for lack of a gaming partner or two, I suppose the game will have to be deferred. Unless -- you have something to wager on a dice game." He's slightly mark-less at the moment.
Crisa snorts.. "Gambling is a poor habit.. especially for someone who was so recently trying to.. seduce me?"
J'sen blinks and looks from Zarvind to Crisa and back. "Well, now that's not something I plan on getting involved in, but..." he grins, "I might have a bit of a wager for you a toss of those dice."
Zarvind says to J'sen, poker-faced, "there was no such thing of course, rider. I assure you I was only stating some facts." He flaps hand at tunic, then sends them up to scratch at his nape. Fidget. "Wager away."
J'sen props a sandaled foot up on a bench and leans against his knee. "Alright then. Each of us toss, high toss wins. I win, you trot out to the bowl and drag in Iskandith's saddlebags. They're heavy, believe me. You win... I put up... say, two marks?"
Crisa snorts.. "Let me try.."
You say "Fine," he barely hides the glee in his tone as he sends the dice sailing towards J'sen. "You can go first."
J'sen catches the dice easily, rolls them arond his palm like someone who's done this before, then lets them fly across the table top. They eventually come to a stop with a satisfying show of ten points. "Beat that," he grins smugly.
Crisa moves over and tilts her head to the side.. "May I roll please?"
Zarvind keeps back his boasts for now -- those can come later; he scrambles off his seat and strides forward, easily retrieving the dice after a long look at them to make sure. "Ten," notes he, and rubs the pair together in his palms, then rolls them in one palm for quite a while before he skitters them from the other end of the table back towards Crisa and J'sen. "C'mon," and "/Eight/!?"
J'sen chuckles and winks at Crisa. "Give us a moment to take of my winnings, then I'm sure we can find something to dice for." With quite a grin, he turns back to Zarvind. "So, out to the bowl we go? Iskandith is waiting oh, so patiently."
Zarvind glances to Crisa, once. He doesn't say anything though, besides an incredulous grunt. "Two points isn't much, you know," he defends himself to her. "But it was a fair game--" He slumps just slightly, part rebellious, part hapless. Turning, he fells in step, hands tucked deep into pockets.
J'sen seems quite amused as he strolls out to the bowl, whistling carelessly.
J'sen disappears through the narrow tunnel to the bowl.
J'sen has left.
You head out through the narrow tunnel to emerge in the bowl.
Southern Bowl - Ista Weyr(#69RJ$)
Spread out along the larger end of the caldera, this end of the bowl is significantly larger than that which lies just beyond the small inlet of two feet of craggy mountains that creep down to form an incomplete partition. The walls of the ancient volcano, long-since slumbering inactive, spread upward with sheer cliffaces that reach into the sky, their outlines reminiscent of four pointed fingers and a thumb. Activity bustles in this area at nearly all hours of the day with dragons or people coming and going throughout the bowl on various errands.
Tucked into the southernmost wall are the living caverns, the gaping tunnel that leads within illuminated by the glowbaskets set within; just beside this is a larger entrance that leads to the dragon infirmary. The Hatching grounds are found in this area, with a tunnel a ground level just large enough to allow passage for an egg-heavy Queen and a larger, gaping entrance in the side of the mountain for draconic spectators to enter. Numerous weyrs dot the mountainside and the ground in this area, some darkened and some illuminated from within.
Infirmary Caverns Tunnel Ground Weyrs Hatching Grounds Northern Bowl
It is currently late at night on day 17 of the 11th month of Turn 198. 10th Interval.
J'sen heads straight for the huge brown that's arranged himself comfortably against the cool stone wall of the bowl. The aforementioned saddlebags are leaning agianst his flank, bulging and looking as heavy as reporting. "Here we go," J'sen calls, his voice causing a bright blue eye to flick open and survey the scene.
Zarvind dogs J'sen's path from inside to outside, and promptly gets swallowed up in the night's darkness. He pauses at the rim leading from caverns to bowl, shadow illumined by the glows there. "Is your--Iskandith there?" Zar takes a few steps more when the blue eye opens, reluctantly nearing the saddlebags as well. "Oh."
A deep, rich shifting effect emcompasses this dragon, one of the largest of his color, even rivaling a few bronzes. Deep golden brown, like desert sands cast in the light of the setting sun melt down his muzzle and cascade over regal headknobs and long neck. Near his muscular shoulders and dripping down over strong wings, the tone grows more intense, as if if sun has gone and the shadows of twilight deepen into a warm, loamy brown. Over his haunches and down his tail, all the shades seem to swirl and mix, peeping clearly out in one spot, only to faed and swirl into indistinguishable darkness elsewhere.
Iskandith warbles a soft greeting, the sound of his wings rustling as he resettles himself loud in the mostly quiet bowl. "Yes, I did manage to find some help, didn't I?" J'sen grins, obviously answering an unheard question. "Zarvind, Iskandith, Iskandith, Zarvind," he says, then hefts one of the bulging bags. "Now that we all know each other, let's get this stuff moved, okay?"
Zarvind hadn't expected that bulk; he starts somewhat at the mere resettling of the dragon. "Oh. Hello," he greets curtly like he is expected to. The bags he looks at, and he flexes his fingers, then bends with a joint-snapping scowl to lay hands on one of the bags. "What are these for, anyway?" his voice is effortless; good thing his face isn't too evident.
Jalani comes out of the narrow tunnel from the living
Jalani follows passed the broken partition to the northern end of the bowl.
J'sen grins knowingly. He's a big man and the bags are heavy to him. "Just spices. I was over bakerhall way today, so I ran an errand for Ismaye. I gues this is the rare stuff we can't grow here or something." He pauses and gives the younger boy an appraising look. "Not too heavy for you, is it?"
"Just spices," Zarvind mutters in an undertone J'sen probably cannot catch. "Of course they're not too heavy. I've never carried spices but I've done similar stuff." Fetch and carry tasks that don't need much trust. Nor brains. He heaves his halfway up, with both hands under it. "Useful stuff, I suppose." While he's steadying his boots on the ground.
J'sen nods. "If you say so." He's not about to humilate the boy by doubting his abilities any further. He gets about two steps towards the cavern before Iskandith snakes his head about and drops it right in their path. "Come on Iskandith, out of the way. I want to get this stuff dealt with so I can relax." The brown just croons and looks more or less immovable.
Meriath wings down to a landing.
Jalani heads over from the far end of the bowl.
Jalani heads into the long tunnel to disappear into the lower caverns.
J'sen has reconnected.
Now Iskandith's gone and put his head in the way. "Shel--" Zarvind bites back a word, an unpleasant word at that on the occurrence. His arms are slipping on that pack already; he wobbles backwards a bit. "Pardon," he tries, expression locking into a grimace. Maybe he can drop the load first.
Cymber heads over from the far end of the bowl.
Moving in, enrapt in whatever thoughts consume infirmary assistants, Cymber skirts the edges of the bowl from north to south, somewhat oblivious to anyone or anything in it.
First impressions of this young woman will have nothing to do with the fact that she's not overly tall and not yet out of her teens. The flash of a knowing smile or the snug fit of fabric over the curve of a hip might be more on the mark. She's got a body designed for pleasure and she uses it well for that purpose, a touch of sensuality in each of her gestures.
That subtle eroticism is inherent more than feigned, lending softness to high, chiselled cheeks, and a graceful tilt to a nose that's been spattered with pale freckles through the same intimate acquaintance with the sun that's burnished gold into her skin. Lashes thick frame eyes that capture the shifting hues of a capricious sea, turquoise and emerald shadows dancing there within to the play of her emotions. A feather-fringe of straight hair has a habit of falling in their way rather than keeping to its place, raven silk framing a delicate countenance with strands that escape a simple wound-up twist.
Shorts, trim, grey things that do much to define the shapely lengths of her now-tanned legs, are worn with a rolled-sleeve tunic in cobalt blue. Both are of fine weave, and the latter's high neck is open enough to expose the hint of glittery amethyst. Light plays off the pendant that finds a home between the curves of her breasts, subtly drawing attention there. Coiling trim in some silvery-stuff doesn't pick out any known form, just a graceful geometric pattern down the shirt's front placket and it's out-of-sight cuffs. Plain belt supports a finely wrought knife to one side of a slender waist, and an ever-present pouch that contains herbs and bandages and other useful things.
For those that care to know it OOCly, she is 16 Turns, 11 months, 21 days in age, precisely.
J'sen absently reaches over to lend Zarvind a hand in keeping a grip on that pack even as he questions Iskandith. "Another one?" He glances over his shoulder appraisingly, then shrugs. "You know I don't question your judgement in these things, love, so if you want him...." He gently puts his bag down and turns to Zarvind. "It seems that Iskandith has other plans for you other than lift and carry duty."
Pehaps some words steal her attention, Cymber lifts her gaze just before she enters the living caverns to smile at rider and companion. Then, just shaking her head gently, she is gone from anyone's vision.
Cymber heads into the long tunnel to disappear into the lower caverns.
"What kind of plans?" Zarvind's ready to discuss propositions, even if the saddlebag that started to slip does, now that J'sen's helping him with it. "Sorry," he bends at the knee a little to straighten the thing, propping it against his kneecap preparatory to replacing it on the ground. Maybe if its business, he can rest first.
Meriath follows passed the broken partition to the northern end of the bowl.
J'sen laughs and shakes his head. "I think you misunderstand. The kind of plans that would have you wearing a plain white knot and then standing on the sands for Trinyth's clutch when the time comes. Assuming you're intersted," he adds conversationally, leaning carelessly against Iskandith's side.
Zarvind adopts that conversational tone by reflex. "That kind. Of course," he replies without thought, an intelligent smile shading his brow. That's before he plonks the bag down on the ground, near one overlarge foreclaw. His head snaps up then, and there's some blinking. "What did you say? I can't--" a shake of his head, and a no-nonsense leer tugs at lips. "I am interested though. Any terms?"
J'sen smirks at the reaction, almost as if he'd been expecting it. Oh how the mighty fall hard. "Definitely some terms. You have to move into the barracks, do chores, follow the rules, and generally stay out of trouble until the hatching. Which means no seducing or gambling," he chuckles. "But that's about it. What say you?"
Zarvind schools himself away from horrified to something resembling humour. His voice crackles slightly, wavering from its usual lazy tenor. "Sounds cr-... reasonable." He gulps in a breath of that fresh night air the Istans have. "Trinyth's clutch. What might I get out of it, then?" Eyes, grey, survey the ground; his boots; J'sen.
J'sen has partially disconnected.
J'sen blinks. "Get out of it? You really have to ask?" He shakes his head and strokes a velvety eyeridge over a gently swirling blue draconic eye. "This is what you might get out of it. But if that isn't enough, then maybe accepting search isn't for you. You are allowed to say no, of course."
As much as Zarvind doesn't want to believe this, a nod breaks his veneer of repose. He sways forward again, onto one foot to stare bleakly at the draconic eye. "Not him, I hope," he confirms, more cheerfully, then "I say yes, actually." He can handle it. "Until the eggs hatch."
J'sen snorts. "Once the eggs hatch, my boy, the choice will be made for you. By the hatchlings. And no fears about Iskandith. He's quite firmly attached to me." He sighs and pushes away from the brown's warm hide. "So, shall we head over to the barracks and get you settled? At least you get out of toting around those saddlebags."
You say "Yeah." He sounds bland, matter-of-fact now that resignation has gripped him between the eyes. His da always said to look at the future, after all. Sandals drag as he shuffles along, leaving the saddlebags behind. No more suggestions, but "Maybe you can get a drudge to do those."
J'sen nods and does just as that a handful of drudges straggle across the bowl. He speaks quietly to them for a moment, then gestures towards the kitchens before heading inside again, Iskandith having moved himself off to the side again. He seems to just assume that Zarvind is following him.
J'sen heads into the long tunnel to disappear into the lower caverns.
You head into the candidate barracks.
Candidate Barracks - Ista Weyr
Natural stone pillars rise from the smooth floor to the high ceiling in this large cavern, its space easily enough to accommodate more than a hundred cots and presses with them. Spaced along even rows and broken up every ten or so by a square table with chairs surrounding it, these cots are almost always neatly made - no doubt for fear of a surprise inspection - with their presses shut at the foot of them. Laundry bins and choreboards fill the recesses, as do a few more personal items left here and there by those who currently inhabit the barracks.
There's a home-spun quality to these barracks, as if those who live here have taken a liking to their environment. Or perhaps it's just that the decorations - hung on the walls by means of lively tapestries - are cheerful and contented, meant to brighten the hearts of those who have most likely been taken from their comfortable beds and instilled in these noisier barracks.
OOC Candidate Info
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